He came to consciousness again, hearing an immense knocking outside. What could be happening, what was it, the great hammer-stroke resounding through the house? He did not know. And then it came to him that it was his own heart beating. But that seemed impossible, the noise was outside. No, it was inside himself, it was his own heart. And the beating was painful, so strained, surcharged. He wondered if Gerald heard it. He did not know whether he were standing or lying or falling.
When he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon Gerald’s body he wondered, he was surprised. But he sat up, steadying himself with his hand and waiting for his heart to become stiller and less painful. It hurt very much, and took away his consciousness.
Gerald however was still less conscious than Birkin. They waited dimly, in a sort of not-being, for many uncounted, unknown minutes.
“Of course—” panted Gerald, “I didn’t have to be rough—with you—I had to keep back—my force—”
Birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind him, outside him, and listened to it. His body was in a trance of exhaustion, his spirit heard thinly. His body could not answer. Only he knew his heart was getting quieter. He was divided entirely between his spirit, which stood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconscious stroke of blood.
“I could have thrown you—using violence—” panted Gerald. “But you beat me right enough.”
“Yes,” said Birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in the tension there, “you’re much stronger than I—you could beat me—easily.”
Then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and his blood.
“It surprised me,” panted Gerald, “what strength you’ve got. Almost supernatural.”
“For a moment,” said Birkin.